


How It Unfolds

by crookedneighbour



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boundaries, Death, Family Feels, Family History, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Oral Fixation, Oral History, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-14 09:30:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7165631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedneighbour/pseuds/crookedneighbour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his legitimacy being granted, Ramsay is taken to the crypts of Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How It Unfolds

The crypts of Winterfell seem endlessly long. Stark lords and ladies become Stark Kings and Queens, their faces weathered by moisture as they creep further and further back into the age of heroes. It is a dull sullen place, and Ramsay sees little reason for his father to have brought him here. 

Roose looks quietly out over the expanse of graves. The crypts suit him, lines of unchanging faces matching his own. Roose and Ramsay are yet to shed their cloaks. The cold here is insidious and constant. 

"Tell me what you see."

Like before his voice is smooth and commanding. Ramsay is unsure what he's playing at this time. There is always a right and wrong answer. There is always something his father is looking for and it can be maddening to keep up with him.  _You are his son now, his true son. He said so. Remember that_. Perhaps he will be gentle still. Father was never kind, but he had been gentler. 

"Dead Starks. Torches.... Darkness," Ramsay lists, looking to Roose for approval. His father's face moves with some brief expression, but it is unclear what it means.

"Tell me what you see," Roose insists. Ramsay's heart hammers in his chest. He is at a loss. He is drifting out in the blackness of the tombs, and Winterfell (his claim) is drifting further from him. His father lets out a brief puff of breath, an unprecedented sign of life, and Ramsay is forced to return.

"I...?"

"Nothing. You see nothing," Roose interrupts, a subtle but undeniable hint of amusement in his voice. It does not show in his eyes or mouth, but Ramsay can sense it in the gut of his stomach. He can never truly prove or place his father's moods, but insight comes to him in bursts of instinctual dread. It's a rather pathetic feeling, like an animal waiting to be kicked.

"This is all that remains of the Starks. Eddard Stark's head is atop a pike in King's Landing, and Robb Stark's body lays in ruined in the Trident after I stuck him in the heart," Roose lectures. There is always something in the way he speaks of that wedding, a perverse satisfaction that implies he and Ramsay have more in common than he likes to let on.

The thought excites Ramsay as well; Robb Stark's pretty face twisted in shock and his body riddled with arrows. Reek has certainly kept Ramsay occupied, but he would have loved to see his father covered in fresh blood. Perhaps something (a chance?) will yet arise.

"The Stark name will fade into obscurity. They have no future nor past. It is the difference between remains and what remains."

He has not said Domeric by name, but Ramsay recognizes the implication. His brain feels out of order. The smallest signs of approval always go right to his cock, and while he recognizes that there is perhaps something wrong or different about this (this is his father after all, they are of the same blood). Ramsay is a creature of impulse.

He kneels this time as well. 

"Father," he murmurs, unsure what exactly he wishes to articulate.  _Just look at me. Look at me as your son_.

Roose looms over him, the torchlight flickering across his features. If Ramsay focuses he can see his silhouette reflected in his father's eyes. His father is overwhelming. He has an air of natural command and quiet focus. Being around him is stifling.

His father fusses with his hair, looking for something. Even if it's another test the gentleness of it makes Ramsay's eyes roll back. The ache in his cock grows stronger.

"Please. I'll be good. I'll serve our house. I know that's all you've ever wanted of me," Ramsay blurts out. A little touch and he's falling apart. He hates himself for it. His father calls this his bastard nature, but now that he's legitimate there must be some other reason for it. Bad blood perhaps, something corrupting outside of the station of his birth.

He wants to cry and he can't place why. His father's hand trails down his face and his jaw falls open as a sign of submission. He can be good. There are ways Domeric taught him to behave, to show his place, and as much as he hated his brother's smugness it may be worth his father's grace.

His father wears good leathers. The tanned skin is soft and tantalizing against his own. Roose breaks the contact to take off his gloves, but the following touch of calloused skin against his chin though different is equally erotic.

Ramsay flicks his tongue out, eagerly reaching for the tips of his father's fingers. He closes his lips around the first two of them and he looks up to Roose hopefully. He knows how to do this part. He laps at the underside of his father's fingers, slowly drawing them deeper and deeper into his mouth. A muffled groan rises in his throat, catching on his father's fingers.

Father is smiling at him. He wants to touch himself, show father how willing he is. He's sticky and wet beneath his clothes. 

"Is this how you intended to serve me?" Roose chides. "Like something more than a whore and less than a wife?"

His words are cutting, but seem like more a thoughtless jab than true insult. If his eyes are burning it's only from over stimulation.

"I had your mother beneath the corpse of her husband. He was yet to grow cold when I finished."

Ramsay reaches for his father's belt, awkwardly rubbing at the bulge in his groin. He's not hard yet, but there is a certain satisfaction to feeling his father's cock grow stiff and swollen beneath his clothes, if only to prove he can feel something other than the vague resentment and condescension he so frequently voices.

Roose draws his fingers back and wipes them dry along Ramsay's cheek. Ramsay whimpers as Roose loosened his cloak for him. It slides from Ramsay's shoulders and pooled around him, evaporating into the dark.

"I'm yours to command, father. However you like me," Ramsay sighs. He gives in and lets his off hand fall to his own britches, fumbling to free his own cock. Father will likely make him beg. Pleasure isn't easily given, but the touch of his own hand takes the insistent edge off his own need. If he's lucky father will take him up on his offer, he'll give himself up spread across the furs of Eddard Stark's chambers or in the bed Robb himself had slept in. That detail would be sure to cater to his father's fixation.

"I asked for Moat Cailin and you brought it," Roose muses. Ramsay nods along. 

"Anything. Please."

Ramsay's left hand inelegantly jerks up and down as he cups and squeezes the heft of his father's cock.

"Now, now, Ramsay. Are you offering this for my benefit or your own?"

Roose's tone is more playful now. Ramsay almost doesn't process that he's crying, but he needs this. Even if it's humiliating it's better than being ignored.

"I'm sorry... I... Please just fuck me, touch me, anything. I'll make it good. Better than mother," he begs.

"She was hardly worth the rope."

This comment is directed at no one in particular.

"Go on then.... Son."

That word makes his stomach flip and his own hand briefly curls tighter around his cock.  _Yes, father_.  _Yes._ Ramsay needs no additional urging. He places his lips carefully and reverently along where he estimates his father's tip to be, beginning with delicate light kisses. A firm hand tugs him back a little and he is soon presented with the tip of his father's bare cock.

Ramsay can hardly contain himself. Father's fingers massage his scalp as he laps and suckles, waiting for permission to take the full length. He could easily come like this, his mouth stuffed full. 

Domeric was thick and difficult to fit without gagging, but his father is challenging in a more existential sense. Domeric was happy to be slobbered and doted on, but his father is a proper lord with more refined expectations.

"Take it down, Ramsay," Roose whispers. His grip is tight, but assuring. He won't let go of Ramsay. Ramsay is his now. He feels safe in his father's grasp, wanted.

Ramsay flexes his jaw wide and begins to lower himself. His throat spasms a bit, but the taste and weight of his father's cock in his mouth drives him forward. There's a sense of belonging in this.

"I have a fertile wife, so I won't be wasting my seed on your lips. Finish yourself off like this."

Ramsay nods and begins to pleasure himself in earnest now. He ought to be ashamed, rutting into his own palm and whining into his own father's cock, but here in the tombs it is only the two of them. The only witnesses to their act are long dead.

A bath with Reek will wash the shame from him, and only the memories of his pleasure will remain then. Father is whispering gentle words of encouragement to him, and though here beneath the earth it is cold, his father's body keeps him warm.  _Good boy. Obedient boy._   _Please, father._

When he comes into his own hand his body shakes and he almost chokes on his father's stiffness. In the afterglow of his pleasure he still idly sucks at him. He can't help but pout when father finally pulls out. He looks up to Roose, his face now a mess of tears and precum.

"That's enough diversions for now. The North needs tending and I believe I've made your position in this family clear," Roose says, arranging himself back into his clothes. He looks as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Ramsay wipes his face clean on his sleeve, as his father strides towards the stairs. Backlit, his father cuts an imposing figure. Together they make their leave of the dead Starks, two men juxtaposed between nothing and everything.


End file.
